Connected
by BeyondBoundaries16
Summary: So this is another sort of Haymitch/Katniss one-shot but it is set in the 74th Hunger Games arena and occurs just after Rue's death. Haymitch and Katniss share a deep understanding and this story shows their reactions to events in the arena, Mentor and Tribute, and also how they communicate through gifts. Enjoy!


_Hi again, here is another Katniss/Haymitch one-shot. It's not really romantic, just about their relationship/understanding of each other. It is set pretty much straight after Rue's death in the 74__th__ Hunger Games arena. I have used both Katniss' and Haymitch's point of view as I thought it would be interesting to explore how Haymitch reacted to Katniss' actions in the arena. Basically, I will give you Katniss' experience of an event and then go back and give you Haymitch's if that makes sense, if it doesn't then just read it and see! Please review and let me know what you think, even just to tell me you've read it! Thank you, enjoy!_

**Connected**

_Katniss POV _

I take one last look at her tiny, perfect, innocent body now encased in delicate flowers. Swallowing, I turn away from her and lift three fingers to my lips, kissing them and then extending my arm to hold them high, our sign of respect used exclusively in the Districts. I stare coldly into the woods for a moment before stepping firmly away, my boots crushing the underbrush as I move.

I don't make it far before the restricting lump in my throat makes it almost impossible to swallow, let alone breathe. I crash to the floor, my body exhausted from emotion, and let the tears fall. I lift my arms, my dirty hands clutching my knees to my chest as I begin to rock wildly.

I try to deaden my screams, biting down fiercely on my fist as images of the spear entering Rue's body plague my mind. The blood on my hands and under my fingernails is a constant reminder that only death surrounds me. My helplessness and desperate loneliness become overwhelming and I begin to shake violently.

The forest is quiet around me when I lift my head, squinting because of my puffy red eyes. My braid is wet with tears as it hangs, bedraggled over my shoulder. I instantly think of Prim, her beautiful blonde hair running over her shoulders in two intricate braids as she attended the Reaping not much more than a week ago.

The Reaping flashes up memories of Gale, how he carried Prim to my mother when she refused to let go of me as I volunteered to take her place as Tribute. I imagine Gale in front of me, with me; he would know what to do - how to fight back. Instead, the image of his dark handsome features and dependable nature threatens to drown me in sorrow again.

I fall onto my side, tearing at my hair, chewing on my lip, trying to prevent myself from breaking down again, but I'm not strong enough. I curl up on the moss and mud, clutching my chest because I fear my heart will tear into shreds, as memories of Peeta, Haymitch and beautiful Cinna fill my mind. I wish the Careers would just locate me now and end it.

As darkness threatens, all my hope ebbs away with the light. "Haymitch please, Haymitch, I can't... Haymitch," I sob over and over again, unable to get a grip on my emotions. I don't know why anyone ever thought I could win; I have become a wreck, broken beyond repair and definitely incapable of finishing off any Tributes.

I find my Mockingjay pin in the darkness and wrap my fist around it protectively. Then I remember that everything and everyone is helpless against the oppressing power of the Capitol. I rip the stupid pin frantically from my chest and throw it into the undergrowth and sit wallowing in my despair - that's when the silver parachute appears, glistening in the moonlight, and lands gently at my feet.

_Haymitch POV (from the moment of Rue's death) _

My knuckles are white, bones threatening to tear through the flesh, as I grip the edge of the desk, fighting to contain my anger. The smooth cut white plastic of the edge of the table is digging into my palms, leaving sharp, straight indentations. Horror plasters itself on my face as I stare, my eyes fixated on the monitor, as it displays the little girl from 11's final breath.

The Capitol tries desperately to steer away from Katniss' actions as she places bundles of fresh flowers, like those from the meadow in District 12, around Rue's dead body. However, there is simply nothing else of any consequence happening in the arena at this moment - no one cares about Cato and Clove sleeping by the Cornucopia or Thresh building a fire - this moment belongs to Katniss and Rue.

I squeeze my eyes shut as the camera rounds on Rue's face again, failing miserably at cropping out the blossoms which Katniss has entwined in Rue's hair. I crush down a sob as they replay the scene where Katniss sung an old District 12 lullaby to Rue as she died - I can't cry and I must not break down, it is my duty to stay strong for my Tributes.

I pull up short, when did I get so attached? It's not like I'm usually sober enough to even attempt getting any sponsors, but this year I somehow seem to have achieved an abundance. For once, the Tributes from 12 have survived the bloodbath and are still around days into the Games. Although it seems there is little hope for Peeta, could I really get Katniss out alive?

"Stay strong Katniss," I murmur as I study the screen intently, and then recoil in shock, my heart plummeting to my stomach as she turns around and lifts her hand in a gesture worthy of rebellion. "No!" I release a strangled half-cry but proceed to watch as she stumbles a few metres into the forest before being crushed by grief.

The camera focuses in her haunted face, her mouth open in a terrible noiseless scream. Her face is already drowned in tears and she grabs at her hair, threatening to tear it from her skull. Her body folds into a helpless ball, convulsing in the underbrush, as all hope fades from her eyes. It's then that I plant my fist in the monitor screen, sending diamonds of glass ricocheting across the desk, a ripple of cracks emanating across the shattered screen from the point of contact.

The flesh of my knuckles rips open as the glass tears at my skin. Droplets of blood are indented in the screen and when I remove my fist blood splatters rapidly onto the white surface of the desk. Momentarily forgetting the trials of my Tribute, I curse loudly and wipe my knuckles across my cream suit jacket.

Then the doors slide open and a camera crew appears, evidently hoping to film my reaction to Katniss' breakdown alongside the footage shown on my screen. Instead they find me muttering profanities and desperately trying to stem the flow of blood from my knuckles on a very expensive garment.

It seems that for some reason the crew doesn't particularly seem surprised at my actions, but then I did plummet head first off the stage at the Reaping so I suppose that with me, anything is possible. Instead, they shepherd me down the corridor to the central viewing room, where a cinema sized screen is broadcasting Katniss as what remains of her life is ripped apart.

She collapses onto her side and I watch as her eyes glaze over in irretrievable despair. Her face is tormented and she begins to chant my name over and over. Her hand oozes blood from where she bit down on it to stop herself from audibly screaming. Now she just shudders, whimpers and moans, her animalistic sounds interspersed with my name.

Katniss tries to speak through her sobs, take control of her emotions, but her body and soul are far too exhausted for that. She doesn't need to speak though, the pain and anguish in her dark Seam eyes tells me exactly what she needs. With each breath she utters my name with increase yearning, leaving me in no doubt of her desire - she needs home.  
_  
Katniss POV  
_  
I reach out to grab the shiny silver pod as it gleams in the moonlight, it almost seems to be emitting a low hum. My fingers tangle in the fine strings and I draw the parachute closer to my body. I wait a moment, staring into the blackness of the forest before twisting the pod in my sweaty palms. I run my fingers over the cool metal surface until I locate the catch. Anticipation and fear rein my emotions as I gently remove the lid with a quiet click. Warmth radiates from the object and the scent of fresh bread saturates the space around me. I extend my fingers and clasp the item encased in the pod.

A rough crusty roll, still warm lies in my palms as my salty tears sink into the forest floor once more. This is not just any bread, but the substance of my District, my life, my home. It is a sign, a gift from heaven, connecting me to reality, a reminder that the entirety of District 12 is still counting on my return and will do whatever it takes to get me there. A small scrap of parchment is attached to the base of the roll and on it are just two simple words and one cunning letter.  
It reads 'I'm here. H-'

One last tear falls from my face as I read those words, my watering eyes blurring the letters into a smudge of black in my vision. I blink rapidly, if anything this letter and gift means I must be strong. I smile to myself as I think of smug, sarcastic and eternally drunk Haymitch. The image of his smile quirking his lips fills me with joy, his anger at me after attacking Peeta almost makes me want to laugh and his stupid hair which always falls into his eyes seems like the most ridiculous thing on Earth.

"Haymitch Abernathy, you are the best mentor ever," I whisper as I bury my nose in the fresh roll, inhaling its powerful scent of nature and peace. I break the bread in two with my hands, revealing the fluffy white inside which spills in from the rolls crusty edges. I decide to eat only half of the gift now and perhaps save the other half for the next day. I feel considerably lighter as I push myself up off the damp forest floor and rise, a little shakily, to my feet.

That's when I remember my pin, discarded so hurriedly when I believed all hope was lost. I crouch down again, scrabbling in the darkness, searching for the little golden bird. I try to estimate where it fell and end up on my hands and knees, fingers brushing delicately over the stems and roots of the plants in the underbrush. Panic is rising inside me when I finally lay my hands over the cold circular pin and I clutch it desperately in my palm, it's cool presence spreading relief through me.

My advanced leather boots enable me to tread almost silently as I move through the woods that night. I am back in the Games, a delicious token from District 12 stowed safely in my rucksack, the other half now spreading its warmth within my stomach. I hold my bow firmly in my hand, the weight of my quiver of arrows a reassuring comfort on my shoulder as I begin to trek through the forest in search of a place to rest until dawn breaks.  
_  
Haymitch POV_

I don't even need a rich sponsor to send the bread, and if I'm honest I think it's a pretty genius idea from old Abernathy. I lost it when Katniss threw that Mockingjay pin into the forest and I'm not going to let that selfish brat die at the hands of the Careers. This year a kid from 12 actually has a chance, and I'm not going to let her throw it away that easily.

When I reach the main market square it is crowded as always with thousands of rich and important Capitol citizens dressed in their finest, brightest and most hideous outfits. As I walk under the imposing marble archway, decorated with intricate detailing carved into the stonework, I am assaulted with the usual onslaught of batting 5 inch long eyelashes which grow from black to gold, men with haircuts so ridiculous they rival my own and enough Effie Trinkets to last me a lifetime.

It doesn't take long for my experienced self to sniff out I sponsor, I look for the dullest and therefore the poorest, person in the room. Even he wears a shimmering grey suit and a huge triangular necklace made from diamonds over his silk cream shirt in the place where a normal person might wear a tie. It takes only minutes for me to secure the deal and I am soon heading back through the archway.

Once the bread is in place in the pod I slip in my own message under the roll before clearing it for launch into the arena. By this time even I am getting a little concerned that perhaps Katniss' state has moved beyond the point of retrieval. "Hold on, sweetheart," I plead as I watch the parachute from a viewing platform as it makes its decent through the force field in the arena - apparently they are designed especially to ensure they can pass through the electric current the force field creates.

For the next few strenuous minutes I alternate my gaze between the screen on the platform which tracks the parachutes location and the one which is connected to the live Capitol feed. The focus is still on Katniss, her tear stained face filling the screen until the parachute touches down gently at her feet. "Perfect," I rumble, those parachutes have always had good shot, not that I have has cause to send many in all my 25 years as mentor.

I am just becoming consumed by my failures, the memories of all those kids I allowed to die now flitting across the blackness of my closed eyelids, when Katniss' voice stirs me. "Haymitch Abernathy, you are the best mentor ever."

My eyes flick rapidly upwards towards the screen and relief and pride fills my chest as I see the fire back in her eyes. I relish in the luck that we understand each other so well, we don't rely on words to communicate, which is probably a good thing because the only time we speak we're fighting. She can read emotions from only my eyes and I hers, but here she is judging me only by my gifts and so far every judgement has been undeniably accurate.

_Katniss POV_

I have just located a suitable tree, a large willow with swooping strands of branches almost stroking the leafy ground when the voice of Claudius Templesmith echoes through the arena. The news that greets my ears makes this my favourite day in the arena so far, if that is even possible. The announcement claims that two Tributes from the same district are now able to win the Games. For me, this means only one thing - I have to find Peeta.

Denying rest I head off into the darkness once more, spreading the branches of the willow tree to allow me access to the outside once again. The noises of the night begin to fill my ears and I realise my sorrow made me deaf to them earlier. Owls screech in the wilderness above, the brooks and streams bubble and scramble as they always have, and the trees whisper to each other as I approach. But I have only one thing on my mind, I now know exactly where the other half of 12's bread is going – and that's straight to Peeta. 


End file.
